Please God, Let Me Live
by jevonne
Summary: John did not used to believe in monsters. He believed in war and loneliness and purposelessness, but he never thought the nightmares of his youth would bear their teeth in his adulthood, and in the same way bear him onward into the open arms of death.
1. Chapter 1

_Please, God, let me live._

It is not the first time John Watson grasps out for the hand of divine deliverance, but it will be the last.

He did not used to believe in monsters.

He believed in war and loneliness and purposelessness— the things that really scared him— but never had he thought the nightmares under his childhood bed would bear their teeth in his adulthood, or bear him onwards into the open arms of death.

It's all poetic for the ever-briefest moment, whether because he hasn't yet grasped the situation or eternity is already setting in, he won't live long enough to find out.

This was supposed to be a normal case— if "normal" can be applied to any of their cases. When they came to the Baskerville testing facilities, Sherlock told him look around and he did. That's what John Watson does: as Sherlock tells him. John was supposed to find something in the lab, maybe a test animal or some kind of hallucinogenic drug lying around, but he was never supposed to run into this.

The Hound is not supposed to be real.

But then it snarls and panic strips John raw. He covers his mouth, gasping so hard that he can hear the breath rattling his chest. Before he knows what's happening, his feet are moving and he's going with them, keeping low like the empty lab is the shrub-speckled Afghanistan desert, like there's even a chance something can hide him. Then he's in one of the cages, trapped but safe all at the same time, hardly aware that he, himself, closed the door until he feels the clang of the metal settling in his teeth. He presses his hand to his mouth again because, surely, the thing could hear him breathing from a mile away.

His mobile rings and the shock of it all but gives him a heart attack. The bloody phone nearly fumbles its way out of his hands when he pulls it from his pocket, but he manages to answer: "It's _here._ It's _in here_ _with me_." He tries to breathe steadily. It's not really working.

"Where are you?" Sherlock's voice at the end of the line is so cool, so calm. John would hate it if it were not the voice of rescue.

"Get me out of here, Sherlock," he hisses in the quietest conceivable whisper. "You've got to get me out. The big lab, the first lab that we saw—" Again, he tries to breathe, just _breathe_ before fear itself kills him, but then the Hound gives a low rumble, and a strangled little noise escapes him. His hand claps itself over his mouth of its own violation.

"John," says Sherlock.

John gasps a small breath. "_Now_, Sherlock, _please_—" The words barely make it out.

"Alright, I'll find you. Keep talking."

"I-I can't, it'll hear me." It's probably already heard him. John can _feel_ it, circling, closing in—

"Keep talking." Sherlock has employed the voice he uses on idiots. The voice he uses on everyone, really, everyone but John. "What are you seeing?"

He's seeing hell. He's seeing horror, pure and raw. Panting, now, he shifts and strains for a glance of it, just to know where it is, to judge how many seconds are left in his life.

"John?"

"It's up here," he gasps.

"What do you _see_?" insists Sherlock.

Trembling, hating himself for the idiot devotion that makes him do it, John shifts closer to the bars for a better look. His mind clamors all over itself, adrenalin and terror and the ignored urgings of his fight-or-flight mechanisms all scratching for the upper-hand. Dizziness threatens. He can't see anything.

"I don't know," he breathes. "I don't know, but I can hear it." It's getting closer. Its low growls quiver his insides. The Hound snarls. "There— there, did you hear that?"

"Stay calm. Can you see it?"

Something horrible is occurring to John: this is the end.

He's so afraid. Nothing has ever frightened him so badly. Combat and nightmares and the morphine-induced thought that his arm is being eaten away by desert bugs could never compare to this, and he doesn't even know why. This shouldn't scare him so bad, but it does. It's sickening. He always thought he'd go out like a soldier, like a tree when they chop it down, strong and solid. But he's so scared. So scared that his hand has already started for his gun before he realizes he wants to end the fear now.

"_Can_ you _see_ it?" Sherlock implores.

"No," John hisses, and his fingers tighten around his L9A1.

Then he sees it.

The Hound is vast as night. It brays around a swath of needle-sharp teeth as it approaches, uglier and more hellish than he'd allowed himself to imagine. But here it is, living, breathing, red eyes watching, just as real as his phone in one hand and his gun in the other.

"I see it," John whispers, and an odd sort of stillness settles over him. Slowly, he draws the gun out of his waistband and rests it on his knee, leaning back as he does so. "It's here. It's right here." And here it comes, closer, closer, and he's going to die and it's going to be awful, a horrible death, eaten alive, and he's not ready, he can't do it, the horror's too powerful and too all-encompassing and _Dear God, let me die!_

He shoves the gun's barrel into his mouth with such force that a few teeth chip. There he sits, shaking, finger firm against the trigger. The Hound is so close that he can smell its breath, all sulfur and rot and the promise that John will die a death of agony.

There is something tearing up his insides that screams, "John Watson will not die like this!" but the fear whispers, "Yes he will," and he pulls the trigger.

Seconds later, Sherlock finds the brains of his only friend spattered up the wall.


	2. Chapter 2

He's numb when his knees hit the floor.

Part of his brain is telling him the facts (_John dead, bullet to the back of the throat, grey matter— pons, medulla, cerebrum, occipital, temporal and parietal lobes— blown out through occipital and parietal bones, weapon still in mouth, finger still on trigger, perfect crime scene)_ but the other part, the part that's louder and more conscious has gone entirely dead. His brain says _don't contaminate evidence_, but his hands slide the gun from between John's teeth anyway (_chipped molars, bloody barrel, pieces of tongue), _and his arms gather up the limp body (_still warm, no heartbeat, oh god John is dead John is dead John dead John dead deaddeaddeaddead_). The gore on the wall attracts his eyes, and his brain says _catalogue it,_ but he doesn't, because John is not for gathering data. Someone yells "Bloody hell!" behind him, and there's a rush of action and questions, and it's just meaningless, stupid sound because none of them matter because _John is dead_.

There is a brilliant moment in which Sherlock's great brain thinks this must all be a mistake. Perhaps earlier, when he slipped the hallucinogen-laced sugar into John's coffee, he got some of the drug on his own fingers. Yes, that must be it; all of this is a product of his overwrought mind and very strong hallucinogens.

No. No, that can't be right. (_hypothesis_: _wrong wrong wrong! extra precautions taken, hands washed, no oral/manual contact since then, traces on fingertips would be ineffectual anyway) _Logic, in all of her bloody infallibility, says that, no, this is really happening. (_John dead: empty flat, no blog, undisturbed sock index, who will buy milk?)_

And then it dawns on him. (_too slow, think faster, reach conclusions with more efficiency, sentiment makes deduction challenging_)

John is dead because of _him_. Sherlock has, for all intensive purposes, killed John. (_oh god oh god just wanted to test out the theory that was all that was all didn't mean to kill him)_

Sherlock bolts to his feet, and the body hits the floor with eerie finality. His coat spins as he makes for the exit, and people leap to attention around him but don't converge. (_like Moses through the Red Sea, John might say— would John really say that? can't confirm or deny, no frame of reference)_

It's not like Sherlock to forget, but he finds later that he doesn't quite know how he exited Baskerville, only that he trembled and yelled and perhaps passed out, and the damned blood will never come out of his coat. The therapist Mycroft tries to hire sends Sherlock an email telling him that he experienced a breakdown, but he deletes her as well as the message. The following few days are equally blurry, but the detective is fairly certain the drugs are to blame.

Six days after John dies, Sherlock's laying sprawled all over the couch in 221B, confronting the ceiling. The cracked plaster (_682 faults, nine water stains, six burns caused by chemical experimentation, one discoloration of unknown origin_) is unresponsive, so he turns to look at the skull on the mantel.

"There is something wrong with you," it tells him.

He gives his best glare, gathers up his house robe with a histrionic jerk, and turns to bury himself in the sofa. The back of his brain buzzes, leaping from elephants to teacups to the roach that scurries across the opposite side of the room. Cocaine used to make his thoughts clearer, but now it almost stings, grabbing his strings of consciousness and trying them into one another, pulling, twisting, not thinking right. (_thinking: case. case: murder. murder: John. John: everything leads back to John.)_

When did he shoot up last? He's been losing track in the fuzzy aftershocks of the high, stumbling around in the convoluted insides of his head. (_actual ramifications of human moving inside cranial cavity: violent. would result in blood-brain and destruction of pia matter)_

He needs a case.

"Don't normal people have a cry?" It's John's voice.

Sherlock bolts to the edge of his seat with eyes peeled wide.

"Getting baked in the absence of the only person who will stop you is a bit not good, isn't it?" says the skull, speaking in John's voice. The morbid contours of its mouth are smiling.

There must be more cocaine in him than he anticipated; he hasn't hallucinated since his first and last affair with heroin. He frowns. "Piss off."

The skull doesn't go anywhere. "Don't you feel _anything_, Sherlock? Remorse? Shame? You must feel something. You killed the man."

Sherlock crosses the room in three hysterical strides, seizes the skull, and sends it hurling into the adjacent wall. Wire snaps. Something breaks. Bones (_mandible, maxilla, frontal, sphenoid, ethmoid, nasal)_ scatter themselves all over the table, on John's open laptop (_unfinished blog post: "And trust me, you don't want to be around him when he's bored. He's hyperactive, rude, arrogant"_), across his papers (_bills, lists, phone numbers of friends— friends, plural: John Watson had more than one friend)_, in his date shoes where they've been left on the floor (_no girlfriend but maybe he was hoping— hope: useless)_.

Sherlock stands rooted in place and heaving. He gives a slight shiver.

"Sherlock, dear," calls a quavering voice, "are you alright?"

"Ms. Hudson, _shut up!"_

Sherlock does not understand why, despite the fact that he just screamed for silence, he is disappointed at its coming. He spends a moment waiting, fingers plucking restlessly at the strings of some invisible violin, but Mrs. Hudson does not ascend the stairs. Doesn't even leave her flat, in fact (_television running, stove on, clink of teacups)_.

The silence is still for the slightest moment, then his brain is tearing itself apart. _Get a case get a case get a case_, it says, but another part is saying _no_, _John would say to slow down, to stop,_ _just_ _stop it, Sherlock_ but Sherlock can't stop, he can't handle himself anymore, he doesn't even know what to do, and somehow the violin has found its way into his hands, and he's standing at the window, jaw set, neck taunt, frame trembling, bow poised.

A low, keening moan plays across the strings when he draws the bow over them, and he eases into it, eyes closing. Composition is taking place but at the same time it's not, because his mind is churning up new notes and then letting them fall away, not deleting them but simply allowing them to slip through the cracks. The violin murmurs its low dirge long into the wee hours of the morning, and when Mrs. Hudson finds Sherlock the next afternoon, he's collapsed into John's desk chair with the first sleep he's had in days.


	3. Chapter 3

_I heard about John. I'm so sorry. Talk about it over dinner?_

Sherlock gazes not at his phone but through it, like a microscope lens or the façade of a murderer. He deletes the message and considers deleting Irene Adler, but does not. He probably wouldn't be able to, anyway (_attempted deletion of John Watson: unsuccessful_;_ attempted deletion of Irene Adler: likely to have similar results, evidence would solidify assumptions but assumptions are not important enough to warrant experimentation)._ Instead he taps up a message and sends it elsewhere.

_I need a case  
>-SH<em>

There's a shift in activity somewhere downstairs (_chair scraping backwards, door opening, first step creaking_) as Mrs. Hudson exits her flat, and by the lilt of her steps Sherlock can tell she's carrying something heavy. He supposes that if John had been sitting in the chair opposite to him, the doctor would have gotten up to help their landlady. A hairsbreadth of a moment passes in which Sherlock considers going to aid Mrs. Hudson himself, but he discards the notion as dull and unbearably maudlin (_Mrs. Hudson has made the ascent to 221B roughly 492 times, likelihood of injury or trouble unbelievably low even with her hip, assistance not required_). Just because Sherlock has killed his best friend does not mean it is his responsibility to fill the empty shoes left behind, because after all it wasn't on purpose.

This conclusion, though entirely logical, is not satisfying. Nothing has seemed satisfying since John's departure.

His phone peeps. A thrill sparks up in his mildewing brain, and it's all he can do to open the new text before he dies of impatience. It's Lestrade.

_are you clean?_

Sherlock's face sets into a frown. The flat's door opens behind him and Mrs. Hudson bustles in carrying a tray of tea (_she's made two cups out of habit, hasn't realized the mistake yet but will pretend the second one was for her then stay to drink it to sell the lie)_ but he makes no acknowledgement of her. He glances at the four nicotine patches nestled near the crook of his arm.

_Does it make a difference?_

_-SH_

"Hello there, Sherlock dear! I've just— oh my," Mrs. Hudson trails abruptly off, and though he's not watching, he knows she's realized her teacup error. The phone announces another message.

_sure as hell it does! i know youre having a hard time but i cant let you have any access to crime scenes or case files unless you can promise me you're 100 percent clean_

_I'm clean enough._

_-SH_

He presses "send" with a vengeance at the same moment that Mrs. Hudson solves her dilemma. "I've just come to have some tea with you, dear!" she resumes several moments late. Another beep from the phone.__

_no cases. get some rest_

"Sherlock?"

_I've had rest. I need a case  
>-SH<em>

"I'm sorry, dear, it's only that you've not left the flat in days and I'm a tad worried—"

_no cases and thats final or therell be another 'drugs bust'_

"—but I made your tea the way you like it, and—"

"_Mrs. Hudson_!" Sherlock roars, and she jolts so badly that the teacup nearly hits the floor (_would have been_ _second broken object this week, who would have cleaned it? not your housekeeper)_. "Leave," he commands, but his landlady only stands petrified. "_Leave!"_

And the both of them are headed for the door, Mrs. Hudson to escape through it and Sherlock to slam it behind her. When it's shut, he turns with his back against it, suddenly heaving and breathless, and he doesn't know what's happening but his throat is tight and all he can hear is John's voice in the echo of the door's hinges saying, "Not good."

Sherlock's trembling. This is not the first time his body has betrayed him recently (certainly not) but this is different, because before he had wanted to _do something_ about it and now he possesses nothing in the world but the crippling urge to cry. Never the sort of man to shed tears, he fights it, fights his constricting throat and his trembling lips and the eyes that are trying to screw shut, fights his own body and soul, fights the unbearable _pain_ in his chest until he's turned inward on himself and it's just _too hard_ to fight.

So, Sherlock Holmes sits alone on 221B's cold floor and weeps bitterly. It's an ugly kind of cry, tainted just enough by self-pity and anger that his nose runs and sobs break audibly from his shuddering lips until the back of his throat is raw. The relentless ache in his chest only grows, and he doesn't understand it, because he knows that he feels no physical pain but something is telling him that he _hurts_. His body begins to rock of its own accord, as if it knows it's just the vessel of transport and seeks only to comfort the brain. But it doesn't help, because the brain isn't hurting. The brain's switched off, now. It lies so dormant that it doesn't even notice Mrs. Hudson creep into the flat. But the body senses her, and it clings helplessly to her with hands so taunt they're white at the knuckles, and allows her arms to cradle its head, and dampens her dress with more tears than it's cried since it was only a small body with the mind of a boy who'd never seen a dead man in his life.

And he realizes that the real-but-not-quite-physical ache in his chest must be his proverbial heart, though until that moment he had still believed he did not have one.

The cry lasts a good long time, until Sherlock finally stands, quavering at the knees, and pulls Mrs. Hudson up with him. A sad smile takes hostage the corners of his lips, and though it's rather unclear to him why a grin should find itself on a tearstained face, it seems to be the right thing because Mrs. Hudson smiles back.

"You had better be off, now, Mrs. Hudson," he murmurs, voice cracked with emotion, an unusual guest who is beginning to feel unwelcome. Gently, he cleans a smudge of watery makeup from beneath her eye with his thumb. "Get some rest."

"No, dear, I've had quite enough—"

"Don't be silly, with the amount of makeup that just ran off your face? You're covering bags acquired by at least five semi-sleepless nights. Go on, Mrs. Hudson." She watches him for a long moment, and Sherlock becomes aware that in different circumstances he would walk away, or order her off again, or turn to John (_irrational, John is dead, stop thinking like he isn't_) and say, "Don't you think so, John?"

But instead he observes, and for the first time realizes that Mrs. Hudson has been in mourning, too (_eyes chronically red, slightly underweight, hair unfixed, new frown line forming)_. It's the sort of thing he should have caught, but perhaps he has only not seen because he has not been looking.

Sherlock lifts her hand (_brittle bones, chipped nails: compulsive cleaning to distract from grief),_ leaves a kiss on it, and resolves to look more closely in the future.


	4. Chapter 4

John's been dead for three weeks when Sherlock discovers a coping mechanism.

The needle eases into him as his eyes flit shut, and he rides the rush into brilliant, hypersensitized oblivion. But instead of opening his eyes and using the high to enhance some wild escapade out the door or through the flat, his lids press tighter and Sherlock Holmes goes inward.

John made fun of the "mind palace" on more than one occasion, but with just the right amount of cocaine, the memory technique becomes an escape.

The palace is not so much an actual location as it is a filing cabinet. As Sherlock wanders the halls, he's vaguely aware of a misty kind of surrounding, like the scenery of a dream, but the information is what's most important. It's all ordered, labeled and organized (_chemicals, anatomy, physiology, social behaviors, blueprints/maps, dictionary in English, French, German, Spanish)_ but some of the nooks and crannies are empty, representing deleted information. When he glances upward, a ceiling flits in an out of view, mirroring 221B, then Scotland Yard, then Buckingham Palace, then a mindlessly wild expanse of stars, which for the briefest moment steals his breath away.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

He turns when he hears his own voice, rich but ghostly.

"I thought you didn't care about things like that." John's voice joins the echo, and Sherlock turns immediately to follow it. He then comes upon himself and John stepping briskly down a corridor, just as they had on the night that this happened, bundled against the cold and gazing at the stars. Calmly, Sherlock slips up to the two figures and steps inside the one that mirrors his own, finding himself submerged in the memory as clearly as if it were really happening again.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it," Sherlock murmurs, and then steps out of the memory and goes on his way.

Down a fork in the hall and into a small alcove, he tips open a trap door to find himself in Central London. The sky above is insipid, pouring a light drizzle from clouds that can't be bothered to move on. Before him, the road has been cleared of cars and taped off by the Yard. He can see an apparition of himself lying in the middle of the lane, sprawled out and entirely motionless. Approaching himself, Sherlock glances at the coat which he has long since stopped wearing (_bloodstains not appropriate apparel)_ and lowers himself down into the ghost of his body, becoming one with the memory. He can feel the buttons of his favorite shirt against his skin, the coat's pristine hem playing around his knees. The lazy patter of rain forces involuntary blinks upon him every once and a while, but he is otherwise undisturbed.

A sharp sigh breaks from his throat when John's shoes approach.

"Sherlock?" John has that look of indignant confusion which the detective always seems to drive him to. Sherlock hadn't realized he missed it so much. "What the hell are you doing? Where did the bodies go?"

"Removed them," Sherlock drones. "I've already collected the useful data and the coroner would have taken them, anyway."

"Sherlock, you're going to make the yarders angry and I—"

"Lay down."

John blinks. "What?"

"Lay down. There were two bodies. I need you to be the second."

John looks around as if for someone to excuse him from the ridiculous request, but seeing no one, sighs and drops with a grunt to his knees. He then spreads himself out, conforming to the body-shaped tape on the asphalt just as Sherlock has done next to him.

They're still for a stretch, Sherlock in watchfulness and John in relative incredulity. The doctor opens and closes his mouth a few times before turning to Sherlock.

"Um..." he licks his lips in the pause. "Now what?"

"I observe."

John huffs, looks up at the sky, and back to Sherlock. "What are you possibly expecting to—"

"The victims both died of blood loss. They laid here for a long time. They must have been looking at something."

"Cars ran over them, Sherlock, that's why they were lying here."

"That's no good reason."

John turns fully to balk at Sherlock. "_Cars_ ran _over_ them, for God's sake!"

"Yes," groans the detective, "but they were lying like this before the first car hit them. Why would two people dressed in black lie in the middle of a London street at night, especially one as busy as this?'

"I don't know, Sher—"

"Then don't interrupt. Let me figure it out."

The ensuing silence takes on something entirely different than the first, and Sherlock is unsure whether it's actually a part of the memory or whether he's feeling it right now. He didn't pay attention to feelings, then, but now he's clinging to them, gleaning them from the shadow of John's coattails. He watches John's face, which shifts about from interest to frustration to boredom, all the while keeping Sherlock in his sights. Had John always looked at him that often? He'd been aware of the attention, but he'd never quite noticed that searching sort of disbelief, as if the vastness of his intellect was alien to John. But it was, wasn't it? And that was why John was dead. He just had to test it his theory on someone he thought inferior, didn't he? But how could he have miscalculated so direly? The good doctor was hardly inferior. In many ways, Sherlock is sure he'll never be as good a man as his friend was.

"That's brilliant!" John is saying. "How—"

In the memory, John is interrupted by the explanation, but now it's quiet, because Sherlock's just staring at a man who's only alive in his mind. His recollections continue on without him, the detective's ghost standing up and departing with John on its heels. Sherlock tries to follow, to dive back into the memory, but something's holding him back, calling him to reality, bleak and raw and _no I want to stay I want to stay_ I want to stay!"

"What, Sherlock, dear?" Mrs. Hudson is standing over him (_hair and makeup fixed quickly, wanted to look nice, had minimal warning)_. "You want to stay where? Oh, you look awful! Are you alright?"

"Fine!" Sherlock sits upright in agitation and realizes that his high must have worn off several hours ago, as the sun has skipped to the other side of the sky since he receded into his mind.

"What's going on? Why are you here?"

"Oh, Lestrade's been calling you, dear! Suppose you didn't notice," she titters, unaware that something uncomfortable and heavy is settling in Sherlock's chest. "He's got a case for you, and that's just the thing, isn't it? I'll just bring him up now, you wait here." Mrs. Hudson pats his hand and bustles off.

There are approximately three seconds of stillness before Sherlock is rushing. He knows Lestrade won't let him work on anything if he sees this flat and its occupant in their current condition, but he'll be damned before he lets the stimulation of a good case slip by. So he darts about, (_cover needle marks with nicotine patches, hide cocaine, pick up broken skull, change out of John's jumper into suit, close John's laptop, sweep _Internet Detective Blogger Commits Suicide _articles beneath couch, use eye drops to alleviate drug-induced irritation, splash face with water to look clean_), then drops with artificial nonchalance into his chair just as Lestrade steps in. The DI casts a wary sort of glance around, as if he expects John to accost him from behind. Sherlock almost expects it, too.

"I suppose you're coming to check up on me." Sherlock steeples his fingers before his lips, cutting his eyes in Lestrade's direction. The man seems weathered (_trouble with the wife, unrest at the Yard— John's absence? likely, John Watson had friends, friends: plural)_.

"Well, yeah, I am." Lestrade sighs, pockets his hands. His head hangs a bit.

"Brought a case?"

"I may have." Lestrade eyes Sherlock like he can't quite believe he's real, like he thinks SherlockandJohn were such a unified entity that there is no existence of one without the other. That may also be true, Sherlock thinks. "You clean?"

Snorting, Sherlock peels up his sleeve to reveal the nicotine patches. "Please."

Annoyance colors Lestrade's features, but it's a tired sort of annoyance, the kind Mummy had looked upon Sherlock with when he let the bird out of its cage _again_. "We've been over this. That doesn't really _mean_ anything."

Sherlock glares. "The case?"

"People usually attend their loved ones' funerals." The DI's lips press together hard, a challenge gathering in his folded brow.

Sherlock scoffs at him and re-crosses his legs. "I didn't love—"

"Bloody hell you didn't, everyone did. He was a good man, John Watson. A very good man."

Sherlock finds himself unable to look Lestrade in the eye. His fingers fidget violently. He feels trapped, angry, vicious. "Case?"

"Got one or two. You'll have seen one in the papers— if you've been reading the papers, I mean."

"Of course I've been reading the papers," Sherlock scoffs. Lestrade gives him a pitying look (_damn it Lestrade knows Sherlock has been reading about John's suicide in the paper_), and it does little but set Sherlock on the edge of fury. He will not be pitied.

An uncomfortable sort of silence passes in which Lestrade glances at John's chair like he's planning to sit in it, and Sherlock prevents him from doing so with a challenging rise of one brow. He wonders, briefly, if John would have made some kind of intervention here (_"Would you like some tea?" "Have any leads?" "Sherlock isn't just some heartless machine, you know, so don't look at him like he is one.") _but John's dead and gone so Sherlock breaks the silence himself.

"I assume the case you're referring to in the paper is the homicide/child kidnapping."

"Yeah—"

"Simple domestic. Husband did it. Didn't like the custody arrangements."

"What—"

"There was enough in the paper. I'll tell you the evidence if you give me something interesting."

Lestrade shakes his head. "Sherlock, I won't be bribed—"

"It's not a bribe, it's an incentive."

They stare at each other in a sort of stalemate, though Sherlock knows he will win, as he always does.

But he doesn't quite expect the next question.

"Why haven't you been on the Hound case? Seemed like you had a lead before..." Lestrade is either too weak or too decent to finish, but Sherlock is neither so he says it himself:

"Before I _killed_ John?" He stares the DI down, daring him to say something, to agree or defy or change the subject entirely. But it's just quiet.

"I can't give you a case until I'm one hundred percent sure that you're fine, Sherlock," Lestrade says after a long moment. And though he doesn't say it, it is obvious that Lestrade knows Sherlock will never be fine (_fine [fahyn] adjective, of superior or best quality; of high or highest grade_).

"Get out," murmurs Sherlock, closing his eyes. "Just get out." When his lids flick open, he partly expects Lestrade to still be there, but he's not, and that's just as well.

Sherlock returns himself to his preferred mode of survival in moments (_no suit, wearing one of John's jumpers, needle poised over crook of arm_), and it's not long before he's gone down the rabbit hole again, catching killers by starlight with John at his side. And that's as close to fine as he thinks he'll ever be.


	5. Chapter 5

_My condolences_— deleted.

_I'm so sorry about_— deleted.

_I loved John's blog, it's such a shock that he_— deleted.

Sherlock glares at the screen as if it has done him personal wrong and wonders why normal people are so set on pretending like they care about two men they've never met. His website's forum is cluttered by sympathies of strangers, making it particularly hard to get at the potential cases (_only thing worth reading_). Incidentally, said cases are few and not especially promising.

_My purse was stolen_— deleted.

_My wife is cheating and I want to know_— deleted.

_My son won't tell me who's beating him up at school— (last case, don't delete, may be final resort if nothing interesting crops up_).

He's restless. Off the drugs for a month, the world feels as if it's folding in around him, pinching him at the edges. Cold turkey. That's how John wanted it. And it's driving him crazy, because if he felt alone before, it's a billion times worse now. Every time he spins around to say, "I _need _some! Get me some!" there's no one to shake his head and give reproach and say, "No, Sherlock, you promised."

Suffering alone.

_You deserve it_, says his brain. Funny, the things his great mind insists upon in the absence of proper stimuli. _You're awful. You deserve this. Maybe you'll die this way: alone. Maybe you'll die soon, really soon reallysoon especially if you don't get some cocaine getcocaineDEARGODGETCOCAINE_

"Oh, _hell_!" He slaps the laptop shut and flings it into the other end of the couch. "_God,_ gahhhhuuuugh—!" The table creaks when he steps on it (_three out of four legs coming loose, John said he'd fix it, where's the cocaine? need a case!_) and the room jumps around him as he rakes a hand violently through his hair, the uncombed snarls catching on his nails. He's just about to kick the table over when his phone trills, and his hand tears it from his dressing gown pocket with involuntary speed.

"_What_?" he spits.

"Awfully cranky, aren't we?" Mycroft's voice is condescending as per usual (_at the office, diet going badly, calling out of worry or obligation from Mummy, likely the latter_). "I heard you haven't had a case in seven weeks. Must be a record, don't you think?"

"Are you calling to antagonize me, or is there a _point_?"

"I'm worried about you." So, not Mummy. That makes it worse—Mycroft actually _cares_. Sherlock drops into his chair and snatches up his violin, the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder.

He sneers, "Diet going well?" and can practically see the ensuing eye-roll on the other line.

"Going off the drugs?"

Touché. "You've called. I'm fine. Are you finished?"

"No, I have a something for you." Scoffing, Sherlock mounts the violin on the other side of his neck and draws a few aggressive notes from it.

"Not interested."

"It's something new."

"Not. Interested." He hates himself for his own stubbornness, but where Mycroft is concerned, there's no room for compromise. Even if his brain is tearing itself up from the inside out.

"Is there _anything_ you're interested in?"

Sherlock fully intends upon hanging up, but before he quite knows what's happening, his teeth are drawing apart and his vocal cords are ringing and there's noise coming out of his mouth that sounds awfully like, "Where did John live?"

Mycroft is silent on the other line, and Sherlock almost has to wonder if he actually said anything at all, or if his mind is driving itself mad against the boredom. But then there's a crackle of static (_reception breaks up in the southeast corner of Mycroft's office, he must have stopped there while pacing_) and Mycroft inquires, "Before he lived with you?"

"Yes," the detective's voice is faint. "Before."

There's a strained sigh, most definitely the kind inherited from their father ("_Sherlock, I'm disappointed in you. Just because the cat died doesn't mean you can skin him_."), before The British Government concedes. "I'll call when I know."

"Text," corrects Sherlock, and proceeds to attack the violin's strings with vehemence until Mycroft hangs up. Straightening his neck, he allows the phone to drop to the carpet and leans into the strokes of the instrument. The music, agitated as he is, has a semblance of distraction to it, but is unable to draw his mind from the case he's turned down. Though nothing is so sweet as Mycroft's exasperation, the sheer boredom of the withdrawal is going to kill Sherlock.

He's getting desperate. Play-Russian-roulette, dive-into-the-Thames-for-a-nice-swim, jump-off-the-roof-just-to-feel-the-thrill-of-the-fall desperate. Take-the-boring-case-at-the-bottom-of-the-pile desperate.

"Hell," he hisses, angry that it has come to this, as he leaps up and snaps open his laptop.

_221B Baker Street. Come, bring your son, I'll find out who's beating him before the day is out –SH_

With that sorted, he makes a home on the couch with one leg splayed over the back and one draping on the floor, and waits. He makes no effort to prepare himself for his clients, neglecting to clean and choosing to remain in his dressing gown and John's shirt, as he usually does. The development of this new habit— wearing John's clothes— occurred almost subconsciously, for though he remembers pulling on one of John's jumpers for the first time a month and a half ago, he doesn't know why he did. He's given himself over to the idea that he is, in fact, affected by sentiment (at least where John is concerned) but what with the height difference between them and Sherlock's aversion to doing any washing, the impracticality of wearing his friends' clothes is astounding. But they smell like John. The way he made his tea, the flavour of his shampoo, the slight tang of his sweat. Whereas the rest of the flat is reluctantly allowing the scents to drift away, John's clothes cling to them, the last vestiges of a good man who's no longer here to say, "Sherlock, go on and take that off. You're being a stubborn git again."

He can practically see John saying just that, in fact. Always the soldier, always tightening the corners of his sheets until a coin could ricochet off the middle of the bed. He'd liked things good, tidy— but then, Sherlock muses with a chuckle, even the sharpest soldier can appreciate the terrible euphoria of diving into the foxhole. John loved the chase, loved to throw a punch every so often, even enjoyed having one-too many pints from time to time. Sherlock finds himself grinning at a particular memory of John staggering in after a late evening with Stamford, slurring at an unpleasant volume that disrupted the detective's thinking.

"Sherlhhh..." John stood at the open icebox, unable to form two consecutive syllables. "Why's... dinnt I say nho heads?"

Sherlock visualized the scene without looking up (_John staggering with alcohol, shirt lopsided, hair mussed, staring at head in freezer, about to pass out_). "Go to bed, John."

"Dijhoo just tell me t'go t'b... bed?" There was a feeble attempt at eye contact when the both of them turned, but John's legs checked out and he collapsed on the floor. Sherlock blinked at him.

"'M Jhawn mofhucgghin Wahtsun, y're not... not 'n charge 'f me..."

Sherlock left him there, a bit spiteful that someone who shared a life with him should see fit to derange themselves with alcohol. He was aware that, if he were in some similar situation— though god knows Sherlock wouldn't let substance manipulate his mind _that_ badly— John probably would have dusted him off and put him to bed, but this was of little consequence, at least at the time. There was no need for Sherlock to imitate John when John himself did such a good job (_redundancy: boring_), so he left his best friend lying passed out on the floor until the hangover woke him the following morning.

"Sherlock? There's a woman here to see you!"

Mrs. Hudson's voice jerks Sherlock from his memory, leaving him stranded in a sort of phenomenal awakebutasleep state which he mistakes a moment for being drug-induced before his mind snaps back into full gear, screaming _THERE'SACASETHERE'SACASETHERE'SACASE_

Habitually he's on his feet and tying up his bathrobe with his eyes trained on the doorway, a greyhound behind a starting gate. His client appears at the top of the stairs. Rolled up in crisp attire, the fiftysomething woman wears ill-fitting heels that do little to balance her unforgiving height with her excess weight (_businesswoman, overcompensates with fake confidence, over-conscious of appearance and height, used to being brushed aside in workplace based on gender_). A young teenager walks beside her with his bruise-swollen face slumped into his shoulders (_poor posture due to old shoes, socially awkward, few friends, injuries on face centered into close-clumped bruises, minimal bodily damage, conclusion: assailant likely female, attacks definitely personal_), allowing her to hold him gingerly by the shoulders (_mother not abuser, simply concerned, affection genuine due to placement of hands, stress in touch, worry of expression_).

"Mr. Holmes?" The mother extends a hand for the shaking, waits uncomfortably as Sherlock gives it a disinterested look, and then tucks it around her son's arm. "Firstly, I'm so sorry about Dr. Watson, the blog was—"

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

The woman starts. "What!"

"No," Sherlock scoffs, waving her aside. He points to the son. "You."

The boy looks utterly bewildered at being spoken to directly, but manages to choke on a "Yes."

"Any other friends? Good friends? Platonic ones?"

"Erm— yes, uh—"

"How many?" By looking, Sherlock judges three maximum.

"Two," the boy mumbles, focusing on his shuffling feet.

Sherlock nods. "Their genders?"

"Excuse me," the mother starts, the tension in her shoulder and twist of one cheek saying annoyance, paranoia, "shouldn't you be asking him about bullies? His friends would never hurt him, and I don't appreciate—" Sherlock silences her with an outstretched hand in her face.

"You requested my assistance, and I'm giving it to you. If you do not wish to cooperate, you may _leave my flat now_." The woman meets his challenging stare for an unnecessarily long moment (they both know she's not going anywhere) before crumpling with a sigh. "Yes, alright, go on."

Nodding to acknowledge her unnecessary permission, Sherlock repeats his inquiry for the friends' genders.

The boy takes an apprehensive look at Sherlock before returning his rapt attentions to his shoelaces (_only single-knotted, one has fallen out, conclusion: distracted while getting ready, must have been nervous for this encounter_). "Uh, just a guy, and— and a girl."

"I thought so," the detective murmurs, mostly for his own benefit, as he steps directly up to his battered client (_doesn't shrink away or step back, never harmed by adult male figure, conclusion: confirmation of female assailant theory_). He then proceeds to prod two fingers directly into the largest bruise on the boy's face.

"Hey!" The boy recoils, but Sherlock's seen what he needs. His attentions return to the mother.

"Leave and be back with the girlfriend and the platonic female friend, and I'll tell you which one has been beating him."

Shock paints the mother's face incredulous. "What! They would never—"

"Obviously they would. Bruises are clustered around the face, indicating an attacker who was personally offended. A simple bully would have hit him in the gut or the groin, but judging by his gait and posture, he hasn't been struck in either of those places." A hand flicks out to trace around the largest bruise, which is just now blossoming back to its original blackish-yellow color. "Size indicates someone with small hands— could be a small male, but angle indicates someone taller so average-sized female would be more likely. Conclusion: attacker was either the friend or the girlfriend. Questions?" When his clients only stand and blink, he gives a roll of his eyes and indicates the door. "I'll be seeing you in a few hours."

"Yes." The mother seems to remember herself, straightening the hem of her suit. "Of course. We'll be back." She ushers her son out (_nervous, jittery, afraid of mother's punishment or attacker's wrath, likely both_), and Sherlock's left alone.

Again.

This didn't used to bother him— _alone_ was never a problem. _Alone _didn't _hurt_. But it hurts now, hurts like a cavity hurts, but he can't call up an old friend for a fix of illegal Novocain to ease this away. Only John can fix this.

"But you killed John, didn't you?" He talks to the skull, because he's gotten in the habit of talking _to_ someone. He used to be able to talk to himself, but that won't cut it anymore. That's not good enough.

His phone peeps. Mycroft's texted John's old address. It's just pixilated digits, but Sherlock stares at it, a stale sort of nostalgia stirring in him that speaks of treasure maps and candy nicked from the jar. This is something special, mystical. A place touched only by John (_illogical, John moved out almost two years ago, flat will have new tenant, don't go, not good not good_) which he has to see, if only to know that there was something of John's he hasn't defiled.

Thirty minutes later he's standing in the middle of John's old flat.

His fingertips sting (_forced entry: rusty skill, practice more_). It's a tiny place, given over to mold and sub-par cleaning. There's a full-sized bed crammed awkwardly in the room's middle, with a small stand at each side (_his/hers: couple lives here_). Sherlock looks up at the ceiling, wondering if John looked up there when the nightmares rent him from sleep. He flops onto the bed and ignores the spill of his miles-long limbs over the edges, keeping the ceiling in his sights. Sliding the phone from his pocket, he fires off a text to Mycroft.

_There IS something wrong with us  
>-SH<em>

He tosses the phone, feels it land on the corner of the bed. The ceiling keeps his stare. It's too still.

The door creaks open and suddenly Sherlock is remembering.

He's laying on the couch in 221B and John stands in the doorway, wearing the sort of grin that has Sherlock's eyes rolling almost involuntarily. The detective asks, "Who is she?"

"What?"John jerks as if just noticing Sherlock's presence. He should have known better.  
>Sherlock is everywhere.<p>

Said omnipresent detective snorts into his cup of tea. "Don't be daft, you've that 'just met a girl' look all over you. She's shorter than you, blonde. You've asked her on a date, as well. How _nice_." He sneers the last word, just because it's that kind of day, and discards the tea on the table beside him. He hadn't planned on drinking it anyway.

They've only been living together a few weeks, so John doesn't yet know to dodge the bullet; he asks, "How—?" and Sherlock is off.

"The slight bend to your neck belies your military posture and suggests you've been looking down for a good amount of time, so she's short. Blonde hair on your shirt, simple. And it's obvious that you've asked her out if you've spoken to her for that long and have come away this fond of her. Plus— it must be addressed again— the _look_ on your face is very telltale. You should work on keeping that contained."

John's face straightens immediately, but in annoyance rather than discipline. "Look—" he steps toward Sherlock, indicating him with an accusatory pointer finger, "—just because you're not interested in dates doesn't mean you need to go giving trouble to the people who are. I'm _sorry_ you're a lonely prat who doesn't know what to do with himself when his flatmate has got someone better to be with, but that's really your bloody problem, not mine."

Sherlock blinks. John is not usually rude, and never with such slim provocation. He probably should say something in retaliation (he usually does), but he's kept mute and staring by an odd pinching in the back of his psyche that he finds unrelatable to anything but childhood bullying. This is illogical, as John is not a bully, but Sherlock is so paralyzed by the juxtaposition that it seems to show right through that great head of his. John has gone still.

"Oh— God, Sherlock, don't look like that."

"Look like _what_?" Sherlock snaps, but the damage is done. John has seen it— seen the fluttering bit of emotion wedged under Sherlock's delicately-comprised, sociopathic guise. It's embarrassing, like losing his pants in primary school, and he almost expects to be teased, or pitied, or _something, _but John only keeps staring. Then he's stepping closer, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective's muscles curl, a loaded spring of social aversion and emotional unrest, but John just stands, ever steady, ever patient.

"Hey," he murmurs, and Sherlock only glares. "I'm— I'm sorry. I'm not used to being around such a smartass, yet." John chuckles a little, but Sherlock looks away, a bitter taste under his tongue. John's hand tightens on the tense shoulder. "Hey, look." Begrudgingly, Sherlock looks. "The date's tomorrow night, but tonight... what do you want to do?"

Suspicion narrows Sherlock's gaze, but John's sincerity seems steady enough. "Molly will be getting two new bodies tonight, I believe."

John grimaces. "Really."

"Yes," says Sherlock, rising, "and I could always use a professional eye."

The grimace deepens. "For... what?"

Sherlock grins wildly.

"The hell!? Who are you!?" The present obliterates Sherlock's nostalgic world and he finds himself still in John's old flat. An unfamiliar couple stands in the door (_male is 27-30 years of age, construction worker, cheating on the woman, who is a starving artist, knows about the affair, only staying because of living arrangements, talking to sister about moving in, sister has a great dane_), and the man is already brandishing a mobile phone. "I'll call—"

"No, you won't," Sherlock scoffs, sitting up. The man dials a digit (_9_) as the detective raises his hands in surrender. "I'm not a thief. I just thought this was an old friend's flat."

Another digit is dialed (_9_) as the man says, "Right, yeah, that's why you broke the lock."

"I told you, I'm not a thief. Look, I haven't taken anything." He inverts his pockets and spreads his coat to show the lack of stolen items. "I'm a consulting detective—" The last digit is punched (_9_) and seven minutes later, Sherlock is grumbling in distaste as Lestrade steps onto the scene. The DI shoos away the officer who's been questioning the perpetrator, then turns a blind eye when said perpetrator begins to pick his own handcuffs.

Lestrade huffs away a longsuffering sort of sigh. "What were you _doing_, Sherlock?"

"I just wanted to see that flat." Sherlock's hands feel restless (_symptoms of withdrawal improving)_.

"Why?"

"It was John's."

Lestrade stares at him like he's mentally ill for quite some time before swiping a tired hand over his own face. "Sherlock, you can't keep going mad over this. I know it's hard for you, but I've already gotten you off of the charges for reckless endangerment and manslaughter— that was hard. This is small, but I'm still going to have to move heaven and earth to get it dropped. You can't afford anything else like this, you hear me?"

Sherlock glares daggers and then looks the other way. He _knows_ what the charges were when John died. He doesn't need— or want— them repeated. "I've got clients back at my flat by now. Take me there." The Detective Inspector opens his mouth like he's going to contradict Sherlock, but he doesn't, and shortly they're heading back to 221B.

Sherlock allows Lestrade to follow him in when they arrive, and they find the mother, son, and two teenaged girls in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. The lot of them head up to the flat, where Sherlock gets a good look at the girls (_girlfriend is very tactile, holds/strokes/comforts boy, leg and arm musculature confirm athletic pastimes, other girls is timid and unattractive in subjective terms, glances between boyfriend and girlfriend frequently— girls have similar hand sizes, impossible to tell which one struck him by bruise size alone_) and finds the data at hand to be inconclusive.

"Come here," he commands the boy, who steps forward. He pushes his fingers into one of the bruises again ("_Ow_!") and leans far into the realm of personal space to squint at the inflamed skin. Suspicions confirmed, he turns back to the girls and points. "One of you has been beating this boy. Does either one of you wear rings?" They seem bewildered, but the girlfriend is the first to speak up.

"I never wear rings! Has Debbie _really_ been hurting Daniel?" She rubs the boy's back in easy circles. His shoulders sag. Sherlock's mostly sure he's got the right one, now, but he asks just to be sure:

"And you, do you wear rings?"

The other girl gazes upon him in horror before murmuring, "No."

Sherlock spins (_effect lost without coat, maybe blood will dry-clean out_) to face the mother and Lestrade. "This is your attacker," he concludes, pointing to the girlfriend.

Before anyone else can speak, the girlfriend shrieks, "No! I told you I don't wear rings!"

"Lie." He points to her hand. "You're very tactile. You rub your boyfriend's back, you brush shoulders with his mother, you probably hug your other _friends_," emphasis here because he can't imagine she has many real friends, "and your ring finger is bare, but the two fingers on either side are rubbing it as if they're used to something being there. You probably took the ring off when they said you had to come see a detective, correct? Obvious. Of course, you had help. Brother. Held him back while you hit him?"

The girlfriend swallows, having all but forgotten to be defensive in her shock. "He— he barred the door so Daniel couldn't get away."

"Ah, protecting his sister's heart, it seems." Sherlock turns to the other girl, who has thus far been attempting to melt into her chair. "You and Daniel had a bit of an affair, didn't you? Nasty girlfriend didn't like it, so she had her brother trap Daniel in a room so she could beat him. How _quaint_." He directs his attentions back to Lestrade and the mother, giving the DI a nod. "I suppose you have all you need."

The meaning is twofold— Lestrade acknowledges his understanding with a nod. "I'll call someone from the station to pick her up, and I may have a case or two for you, too, if you'd like. Could be a bit boring, but there's some families in need of closure and we're rather stumped..."

Sherlock finds himself smiling a little. He's not quite sure why. "I'll give them a go."

And after that, life goes on for Sherlock Holmes.

He knows he will never again achieve a top-notch existence like the one John Watson had given him, but somewhere in the good doctor's shadow Sherlock learned something, for he now holds life in his hands and sees it for the trembling, fragile thing it is. That's not to say he doesn't tell people they're stupid or they're husband's cheating or ask, do you really think you should be eating that last chip?

But at least he's sorry, later (_a little bit: sorry is relative_). He takes more cases now, sometimes even the boring ones— not because he _cares_, of course, but because at least it's something to do.

Between the cases he makes his bed in memories, where he will always be able to find John just as he was, quietly exasperated but still smiling. And, gradually, as the months and years eek on, Sherlock begins to accept Lestrade's weekly invitations to the pub and lets Mrs. Hudson drag him in for tea. Molly kisses him twice, once on the forehead and once on the lips. The third time, Sherlock kisses back. He never stops missing John, but that's okay, because the sadness makes him a bit more human than he ever was.

It's not until John's been dead for years and years that Sherlock realizes the meaning of something John once said, which at the time he had not understood in the least: _Please God, let me live_. It was about loving life enough to cling to it. It was about being happy and not wanting that to stop. So Sherlock Holmes bows his graying head and silently thanks John Watson for teaching him about life, even in death.


End file.
